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on 29-08-2002 21:29
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By Yusuf Ingar
It was 1:00 AM in the morning and my father was crying in pain due to his internal organs. I was only 7 years old at the time, but I remember the day as if it was just yesterday. It was the most terrifying day of my life.
Hospital was far from our minds. It is humanly impossible to get to the hospital at 1:00 AM in the morning.
I lived in Gaza Strip. We would have to cross an Israeli checkpoint to reach the nearest Hospital.
Back in the house, my mother was trying to comfort my sick, old father. A month ago we were informed by the doctors that my father has kidney cancer. I was his only child. My father was only 30 years old. I had never seen a man so young and so hopeless.
The doctors said the disease is curable, but it would cost us money. My mother cried and pleaded with the neighborhood to borrow money for my fathers treatment. But the neighbors couldnt help. They were poor and helpless like us.
Outside the house, Israeli Defense Force were patrolling the streets. It was curfew time.
As I sat on the floor, with my hands on my head, across from my fathers bed; my mother asked me to turn the lights on. I was afraid. A night before, I had heard an Israeli soldier shout that the lights had to be off by 9:00 PM. Anyone seen with their lights on after that will be punished. Nevertheless, I obeyed my mother.
As the pain increased, my father began to scream out of pain. I could do nothing but watch as tiny tears dropped down my eyes onto my purple cheeks. My mother, holding my father tightly trying to comfort him, was also unable to control her tears. How can she?
Heres the man of her dreams. Man she had vowed to help in sickness and death. Man she loved so adoringly. She can do nothing but watch as the cancer is slowly eating my father away. She can do nothing but curse at Israel for not letting my father go through the checkpoint. But there was no one to listen to her curse. There was no one to cry with her.
What happened next still terrifies me to this day.
As we were busy lamenting my fathers pain, outside the house Israeli soldiers rolled their eyes towards the only house with its lights on at nearly 1:30 AM in the morning. That night the soldiers were in a good mood. They must have been drinking. They had decided to harass us.
Suddenly I heard a thumping noise. It is a noise that still haunts me to this day. I sense a sudden breeze run through my body every time I hear a sound of a door-knock. The fear of Israeli soldiers knocking on the door is forever rooted deep inside of me.
Israeli soldiers were banging on the door demanding it to be opened.
Frightened by the clamorous noise, my mother moved to open the door. I can see her shivering as terror ran through our bodies. She slowly opened the door. There it was! The faces of evil! Six Israeli soldiers laughing and chuckling at my mothers terrified face. It was as if our pain excited them.
I could not imagine the pain my father must have been experiencing at the time. Not the pain of a cancer slowly ending his life, but the aching feeling of six heavily armed men giggling at our terrified state.
As two Israeli soldiers held my mother, the other four went right to my fathers bed. My mother was crying and screaming, pleading with the soldiers to leave my father alone. The four men grabbed my father and pushed him on to the floor. They demanded that he take off his clothes. I can see the pain in my fathers eyes. He was too weak to move his hands. Again, the soldiers demanded him to remove his clothes. Perhaps they wanted to see if my father was carrying any weapons. I could have told them he was too weak to carry anything. But they never asked anything. They never even bothered to inquire why the lights were on.
Across from where my father had laid, my mother was still screaming as she was imploring the soldiers to have mercy. But her earnest appeal for compassion landed on deaf ears. Today the soldiers were out to have fun!
I can hear the soldiers talking amongst themselves in a not-so-strange language. I never spoke Hebrew. But that night was different. Somehow I was able to foresee. I knew what was to happen next, but I said nothing. I remained silent. I wonder if I had expressed my concerns, could it have prevented what was to follow?
Suddenly, I heard three shot guns. An impetuous coward had shot my father thrice in his bladder creating a pool of blood. There can be no justification for the untimely tragic death of my young father.
As the shots were fired, the room became silent. For a moment it felt as if the time had halted. My mother, who was screaming for leniency, came to a sudden stop. Her eyes were now wide open and a squeaking noise coming out of her mouth as if she was trying to say something but her tongue wouldnt allow her. I began to weep harder and harder and my tiny body began to shiver wildly.
For the soldiers, the mission was accomplished - success! They had done their job without facing any difficulties whatsoever. They simply walked out with grins on their faces indicating the feeling of ecstasy one achieves after killing a father, leaving a widow to suffer, and an orphan to forever live in fear.
I am now 21 years old and I still remember the day cleary. My mother was also shot by an Israeli soldier three years ago while doing her grocery shopping. And I know I am next.
I am writing this letter of gratitude to Israeli soldiers. If you wanted to, you could have killed all of us the night you killed my father. You gave my mother 11 extra years to live thank you. And to further show your kindness, you still havent killed me - thank you!
Last update : 29-08-2002 21:29
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